


if this is what you call a good life

by Myrime



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Axii (The Witcher), Don't copy to another site, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, FebuWhump2021, Friendship/Love, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mind Control, Miscommunication, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29239848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: When Jaskier glances back, he just barely catches Geralt making a strange gesture in the air. Immediately, as if their entire argument never happened, a strange calm comes over Jaskier, a buzzing in his ears that drowns out whatever thought he might have had a moment ago.“Stay,” Geralt says, and he has never sounded more reasonable. “Don’t follow me.”- Geralt leaves Jaskier behind to fight a wyvern on his own. Jaskier is not amused.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 215





	if this is what you call a good life

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written these two lovely idiots before, although I've been obsessively reading fics in the few hours I could spare.  
> This one's for Febuwhump Day 1 - mind control.

They have barely made it to their camp, the wyvern’s shrieks still in Jaskier’s ear, when Geralt gets back up from their fire, clearly planning on going back out into the night. The wyvern was bigger or faster than Geralt expected, causing him to come back wounded to Jaskier, even more monosyllabic than usual, and now he has apparently decided that his pride is more important than his life.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jaskier asks, readying himself for an argument, even though he wants nothing more than to sit down and sleep. He might not have been the one doing the fighting, but they have been on their feet all day.

Geralt shrugs as if Jaskier should know better. “Kill the wyvern.”

Of course. Jaskier has known for years now that Geralt has non-existent self-preservation skills, but this is the height of stupidity, and he will not stand for it.

“So, what? You want to go back out there, in the dark, while it’s raining, instead of waiting till morning and taking care of that wound first?” Jaskier asks, accentuating each point with a sharp gesture as if the movement alone could knock some sense into Geralt.

This is unbelievable. Geralt barely got away from that wyvern this time. Why would he think it is a good idea to jump back into a most certainly fatal situation with open arms?

“The dark doesn’t matter,” Geralt grunts, barely even looking up at Jaskier while he is trying to put his armour back in working order.

There is no hiding the ugly gash up its side, though, nor the blood trickling out of it. Jaskier is caught in indecision, wanting to go over and help but deciding to stare Geralt down. He will not aid his friend in getting himself killed.

“You don’t think the wyvern might just see more than you?” he asks, sarcasm sharp on his tongue.

“I’ll see enough. Also, it’s wounded.”

Jaskier wants to scream. “So are you,” he says, resolutely keeping his eyes away from the glistening blood on Geralt’s side. This is not the right time to fall into headless panic. At least one of them needs to use their brain.

Geralt is rummaging through Roach’s saddlebags, ignoring Jaskier’s concern. “Better to track it now.”

Better for whom? The wyvern certainly will not go on a vengeful killing spree tonight, but nurse its own wounds, so the villagers are safe. It will not heal up over night, either, so there is absolutely no sense in risking their lives right now.

“You won’t have to do any tracking if it comes for you, since you’re bleeding and smell like easy prey.” Jaskier does not know much about wyvern, but he has picked some things up during his travels with Geralt. Witchers are hunters. That does not mean they cannot be prey.

“Even better.”

That leaves Jaskier speechless. He watches as Geralt takes a salve pot out and smears some over his wound, neither caring for hygiene nor whether he covers all of it. This is just to keep him going a little while longer until he has done what he thinks he must do. How can a single man be so stupid?

“No,” Jaskier snaps, glaring at Geralt as if that ever had any effect. “I won’t allow it.”

And Geralt does not even twitch but glances at him utterly unimpressed. He turns away again and reaches blindly for his sword, ignoring Jaskier as if he is nothing but an annoying bug, buzzing nonsense in his ear. 

This is too much. Clambering up from his place at the fire, Jaskier steps right in front of Geralt, holding up a hand as if he could really keep him from doing whatever he wants.

“No,” he says again, just as forceful. “I’ll follow you out there and make such a ruckus that the bloody wyvern will stay away.”

That is a stupid idea and while Jaskier likes watching Geralt in action, he is not usually suicidal enough to attract attention on purpose. It has become a habit now, that Geralt looks out for him, though, in a way he would never care for himself. If Geralt will not come to his senses for his own safety, Jaskier just has to force him.

“You’ll get eaten.” To give him credit, Geralt looks momentarily upset about that notion before he returns to glaring. It is not really progress, but Jaskier will take anything he can.

“Then you had better stay here with me and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

That will not work, Jaskier knows it even before Geralt huffs and makes to shoulder past Jaskier. “You’re not coming,” he says as if that is a ridiculous notion. “I’m going alone.”

Jaskier feels his patience waning. This was a long day and all he wants is to curl up by the fire with Gerald and Roach close by, knowing they will all be safe for the night.

“I’ll sneak after you,” he says instead and means it. There is no way he could stay here, waiting for Geralt to come back or the sun to rise so he can search for Geralt’s body. That is not what they are supposed to be.

“Bard,” Geralt sighs, sounding like he is on his last thread of patience.

Good, Jaskier thinks as he says, in the same tone, “Witcher.”

If Geralt will not follow common sense on his own, he needs to be needled into it. That, thankfully, is one of Jaskier’s special talents.

“Even you can’t be that stupid,” Geralt says, but when he starts moving, Jaskier moves with him, step for step.

Jaskier does not even have the dagger Geralt taught him how to use, having abandoned it with his pack when he got the fire going. With just his impractical clothes, he will go into this completely defenceless. And completely blind. That will not stop him, though. Only Geralt staying could. Geralt will not let him die, he knows that by now, and since Jaskier does not want Geralt to die either, the path forward is clear.

Stopping again, Geralt growls, “Jaskier.”

Jaskier simply shakes his head. “I’m coming. You can’t stop me.”

He could, of course. Jaskier would not stand a chance against him. But there are few _safe_ ways to do so in the middle of the night with an angry wyvern on the loose.

“I’ll bind you to a tree,” Geralt threatens, glaring at Jaskier like he is being the unreasonable one here.

“Then I’ll scream until every monster within a hundred miles comes running,” Jaskier counters lightly. He doubts he would have to wait for long until something came around to eat him.

“I’ll gag you.”

Now Geralt is just digging his own grave. With a smug grin, Jaskier takes a step closer to him. “Then I won’t be able to call for help if I need it.” The taste of victory is already on the back of his tongue. “Just sit down and go in the morning.”

Indecision flickers over Geralt’s face for just a moment, long enough that Jaskier can revel in it. But then he turns and begins to leave as if Jaskier’s words never made an impact at all.

With a long-suffering sigh, Jaskier follows after him. He does not care much for stepping out of the measly barrier the canopy over their camp offers against the rain, but letting Geralt go alone is still not an option.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says with a warning in his tone, but Jaskier does not plan on listening. He quickens his step until he is right next to Geralt, pretending this is just another day on the road. Just in the dark, with blood hanging in the air.

When Geralt slows, Jaskier knows not to stop immediately. Instead, he struts forward into the night as if he can see anything, adamant on making his point.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again.

When Jaskier glances back, he just barely catches Geralt making a strange gesture in the air. Immediately, as if their entire argument never happened, a strange calm comes over Jaskier, a buzzing in his ears that drowns out whatever thought he might have had a moment ago.

“Stay,” Geralt says, and he has never sounded more reasonable. “Don’t follow me.”

Of course, Jaskier will not. He wants nothing more than to stay out of the rain, to wait by the fire until Geralt comes back to him. That makes everything easier. He will not get in the way, will not distract Geralt and put him in danger.

There is almost a dream-like quality to how his body moves as he turns around to walk back to their campsite. The still warm bedroll welcomes him gladly as he sinks down on it.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Geralt says. The look on his face is almost conflicted, although Jaskier could not guess why. Everything is fine, Geralt does not need to worry.

Jaskier feels his lips pull into a smile and his hand rise for a little wave.

For a moment, Geralt looks utterly lost, but then his expression smooths over and he vanishes into the darkness beyond.

* * *

For half an hour, Jaskier sits in blissful, content silence. He watches the dancing flames and feels the occasional drop of rainwater sneak its way beneath his cloak. One particularly fat drop hits his nose, but when he wants to move a bit to the side, he finds he cannot.

Unease ripples inside him, although he cannot quite put his finger on why. He is perfectly happy just sitting here, after all. Sitting and waiting for – Geralt.

Realization comes to him slowly, agonizingly, over long minutes turning into an hour and then more. Geralt used magic on him to keep him out of the way. Magic that has him bound to this bedroll in their camp while Geralt is out there, alone and bleeding, to fight an already furious wyvern.

The unease churning in Jaskier’s stomach grows and grows until it is forming angry claws and he begins to throw himself with mounting desperation against that foreign tranquillity keeping him in place. If his mouth would work, he would scream. If his hands would cooperate, he could hold them into the fire before him to maybe snap him out of this trance. If only he could get to his feet so he could run to find Geralt and – do _something_ once he knows Geralt is safe.

Later, he will write a song about this, about a battle inside his head that left him mute and helpless, a puppet with its strings cut. The song will not have any words and he will never play it where Geralt might hear, but it is carved into his very soul.

For now, though, he claws quietly, ineffectively at his insides. Until, as suddenly as it had settled on him, the false tranquillity vanishes.

One moment, Jaskier is held aloft by Geralt’s order, sitting in anticipation, the next, he falls gracelessly down, pulled into every direction at once by his muscles suddenly listening to him again. With the cold ground pressing against his face, Jaskier allows himself a short minute to close his eyes and just breathe.

He does not know anything about this magic, whether it is supposed to run its course and then end this abruptly. Since fate does not usually smile down on them, Jaskier fears that Geralt might be in danger instead. Maybe he lost his concentration on the spell, or he fell unconscious. Or –

Jaskier needs to find him. He jumps to his feet and curses loudly. They will talk about this. Fight, really, because Jaskier cannot see Geralt admitting he was wrong without some work. That is for later, though. Jaskier needs to push his anger down and find Geralt first.

Turning to Roach’s saddlebags, he stumbles over his own feet, numb from sitting in the same position for too long. Quickly, with frantic movements, he gets what medical supplies he can grab and then he runs off into the same direction Geralt went.

With a wyvern possibly still afoot as well as whatever else might haunt this forest, Jaskier should be cautious. He should not run or call out for Geralt but keep his senses on his surroundings. And yet, he does not do any of that. Just like for the past hours, his mind is beset by a madness, although one of worry now instead of false calm, barring him from having any sensible thoughts.

He knows where the first round of the fight happened; the fields sprawling out on the border of the forest. Jaskier has no idea whether they would return there, but he needs somewhere to run towards. After hours of being unable to move, he cannot wait for another second. Especially not to make a plan that will not hold up for long anyway.

Perhaps Destiny decided he has suffered enough for one day – or him sitting still for an eternity was not entertaining enough – but when Jaskier reaches the fields, he sees two dark lumps, barely visible against the pre-dawn horizon. Neither of them is moving.

Jaskier curses again and keeps an eye on the two figures to see whether his voice rouses them before he starts running again. It is not the smartest idea he has ever had, since he is only armed with bandages and potions, his dagger left behind once again.

That does not matter, though. He has a bone to pick with Geralt and he does not get to die before Jaskier said his piece and got an apology. Or been grunted at vaguely remorseful. At this point, Jaskier would even take stony silence as long as Geralt’s eyes are open and his lungs are filled with breath.

Once Jaskier reaches the two bodies, he barely spares more than a glance at the wyvern. It has a silver sword poking through the back of its head and generally looks really dead. So does, unfortunately, Geralt.

He does not react when Jaskier falls to his knees next to him, pushing him further onto his back. It is a terrible sight. Geralt’s face is pale and slack, blood-stained and, for once, completely frightening to Jaskier.

“Oh, no, you stubborn old mule,” Jaskier mutter as he pulls at the armour, trying to get it off to see the mess surely waiting for him beneath. “You don’t get to die on me like this. I told you not to go out tonight and now see what happened.”

There is blood, although in the dark Jaskier could not tell how much of it is Geralt’s and how much is the wyvern’s. The earth around them is soaked and any other time, Jaskier would have been disgusted by the cold, bloodied mud seeping into his trousers.

He reaches out to check for a pulse, but his own heart is racing so much, he cannot be sure whether he felt anything. But Geralt is not dead. He cannot be.

With shaking fingers, Jaskier searches through his bag for that vile healing potion. Perhaps they will need an anti-venom, too. Are wyverns venomous? Jaskier is so not cut out for this. Years of travelling with Geralt and he still makes up monsters instead of learning about the real ones.

Still cursing under his breath, Jaskier pours the potion into Geralt’s mouth and then gets his hands bloody trying to massage it down the throat because Geralt’s unconscious form refuses to swallow. 

Then, with no magic tricks on hand, he can only bandage whatever wounds he finds. And then he has to wait.

* * *

By the time Geralt comes to with a pain-filled gasp, Jaskier’s anger has simmered enough to turn into something more pointed, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. He is relieved, too, of course. All this panic stemmed from him not wanting Geralt to die, after all.

He keeps back the words surging up inside him as he helps Geralt into a sitting position. The sun has risen by now and Jaskier had enough time to take in the gruesome picture of the dead wyvern. He had not dared try to move Geralt, afraid of upsetting possible internal wounds. So they are still here, sitting on the bloodstained ground with death all around them.

Geralt still looks like one wrong move will take him back out but he is rapidly gaining strength, built to be up for the next fight as soon as possible. If Jaskier did not hate it so much because that is what lets Geralt throw himself into danger so easily, he would be impressed.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, barely more than a rasp. He looks at once relieved and confused, looking around him as if to figure out what Jaskier is doing here when he should be sitting at their campfire like a discarded toy, happily waiting for Geralt to come back for him.

“Oh, no,” Jaskier snaps, unwilling to let Geralt say another word. “We won’t have this conversation before I can be sure that you won’t die unless I kill you.” He would not do that, of course. All he wants is for Geralt to live.

Geralt looks at him as if he cannot imagine what conversation they would possibly need to have, causing Jaskier to immediately reconsider that notion.

He shakes his head and concentrates on the matter at hand. “Is there anything critical I need to take care of immediately?”

All visible wounds are cleaned and stitched up by now, and Jaskier could not feel any broken bones, but he is not a healer. Now that Geralt is awake, he at least does not have to rely on simple guessing anymore.

“You gave me a potion,” Geralt says, still sounding rather out of it, blinking up at Jaskier as if he expects him to dissolve into thin air at any moment.

“And stitched up everything I could reach with you lying around doing nothing,” Jaskier responds, feeling exhaustion catching up with him. “You’re welcome, by the way.” It comes out more snappish than intended.

Geralt blinks. “What are you doing here?”

That is it. Something shatters inside Jaskier. He was fully prepared to shove his hurt away and take care of Geralt first. But this?

“I’m doing what I said I’d do, you big oaf,” Jaskier shouts, full of disbelief that Geralt is still complaining, even though Jaskier came out here to save his life. “I told you it was stupid to come out here alone.”

Geralt’s eyes glance over to the wyvern and, for a moment, he looks like he will protest that he did the job just fine. Jaskier almost wants him too.

“But Axii – I –” Geralt falls silent, staring at Jaskier like he is a puzzle he cannot solve.

“Is that what it’s called? Your little magic trick?” Jaskier has never heard the word before. Then again, Geralt does not use a lot of magic around him, preferring to stick to his swords. And this spell, controlling someone’s mind – Jaskier shivers as he remembers the helplessness.

“I do not appreciate you doing that, by the way,” Jaskier keeps talking. Anything to keep his thoughts on track instead of spiralling back to those lonely hours. “But I came as soon as it wore off. Or you went down, I guess. I’m not familiar with the mechanics since you never told me you could do that until it suited you to keep me in place.” He did not mean to raise his voice, and yet he grows louder and sharper, feeling something inside his chest give out.

It is really not fair to be left behind like that, to be ordered around by someone he trusts, unable to do anything against it. Glaring at Geralt, he half expects him to snap back, to turn this around and make it seem like Jaskier’s fault. His father would have done that.

Instead, Geralt closes his eyes and grimaces briefly as he shifts into a more upright position. Then he meets Jaskier’s eyes head-on. “I’m sorry,” he says. Jaskier has to pinch the skin of his thigh to make sure he did not fall asleep, right into the most surreal dream his mind could think of. “I understand if you want to leave.”

And there it is, reality crashing back in. Jaskier is definitely awake and Geralt is not done being stupid. He jumps to his feet, too incensed to remain sitting. The feeling of helplessness, of being held in place by magic, comes over him once more, clashing terribly with the surging fury beneath his skin.

“You think that’s what I’m angry about?” Jaskier asks, his tone dangerously calm, even though he feels like roaring. “That you did your finger wavy magic and told me to stay put like a good bard?”

Now that he has said it out loud, he realizes he is angry about that too, and there is certainly a discussion about consent somewhere in their near future, but this is about something much worse.

“If that were the case,” Jaskier continues, glaring daggers at Geralt, “I would have packed my things and left the moment the spell faded.” As if he ever could. “No, I’m bloody furious that you still think you have to do this alone. That you have so little sense of self-preservation that you not only insisted on fighting that wyvern tonight, but that you went out of your way to make sure I couldn’t help you.”

Geralt’s mind is working, Jaskier can see that, even if his face remains impassive beneath the blood still caked on it. “You couldn’t have helped,” he then says quietly, but it feels like a punch to the gut.

Because Jaskier is just a bard and not a fighter. He is not strong or quick or even knowledgeable enough to be of any real aid. After tonight, though, he is also done with getting pushed around.

With clenched teeth, Jaskier points at the empty potion vial, the bloody rags and bandages. “What do you call that then?”

Geralt’s face softens in a way that Jaskier knows means he is truly sorry, pushed there by quite a bit of shame. “Saving my life,” he admits. “Again.”

Whoever keeps telling the tale that Witchers don’t have emotions is almost as much of an idiot as Geralt is for denying himself anything that is even remotely good.

“Damn right. And I’ll do it again and again, as often as you’ll need me to,” Jaskier promises, but then he glares. “And you will never ever keep me from doing that by taking away my free will again. Are we understood?”

Geralt stares at him, clearly searching for words that are not just the simple agreement Jaskier is looking for.

“I don’t care whether you think you’re saving me,” Jaskier says, certainly taking the argument right out of Geralt’s mouth. “Anything could have come for me at the campsite and gutted me there while you were bleeding out here. I won’t stand for it. So, promise me.”

Geralt always keeps his word, so Jaskier will be satisfied with that, even if it will not soothe his anger completely.

“Or you’ll leave?” Geralt asks, and the bleak certainty behind the question breaks Jaskier’s heart.

Years of travelling together, years of calling Geralt his best friend in the whole wide world, and Geralt still does not know that he is everything to Jaskier.

“Or I’ll keep singing ‘Toss a Coin’ until your ears are bleeding.” Much gentler, Jaskier adds, “I’m not leaving.” One of these days, he will get that through Geralt’s thick skull.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says again, sounding more sure of it now. “And I promise I won’t use Axii on you again.”

There, that was not so hard. Now only Jaskier’s racing heart needs to get with the program. Everything is fine. Geralt is alive and healing. His mind is his own. Crisis averted.

“You can apologize by coming back to our camp,” Jaskier says, pushing his inner turmoil down. “You’re far too heavy to carry but I’d prefer to do our brooding next to a nice, warm fire.” And away from the wyvern corpse.

With a sigh that quickly turns into a grunt of pain, Geralt gets to his feet, looking anything but steady. Immediately, Jaskier is by his side, offering his arm.

“Slowly,” he admonishes, wondering why he ever thought Geralt would be sensible about this.

“I thought you wanted me to move?” There is a trace of amusement in Geralt’s voice, hidden beneath quite a bit of uncertainty.

“Not so much that you’ll rip your stitches and undo all my hard work.”

In response, Geralt just rolls his eyes but leans against Jaskier, accepting his help without further protest.

The unease in Jaskier’s stomach settles into something bearable, even though it is not completely gone. But Geralt will live and, for the moment, that is all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
